As newscasts and headlines
across the country have reported, my post about a quiet and still evening last
night was premature. Although Fort Worth got only a smattering of rain—at least
in my part—about nine o’clock I began to hear on TV reports of tornado
touchdowns in Dallas. This morning the news is full of devastating damage, as
three tornados touched down, one cutting a wide swath across north Dallas near
Love Field and out into the suburbs.
Jordan looked at
the pictures on TV tonight—mansions turned to rubble—and asked if I would go to
my closet. I said, “Of course”—although I have only once in fifty-plus years in
Texas gone to a closet. I did point out that if that kind of destructive storm
hit here, being in the closet would do precious little good. The worst damage
in Fort Worth I heard about was one friend who forgot to take down her outdoor
umbrella and another who lost a sweetgum tree that fell on the house. No
injuries. And Dallas was fortunate—no fatalities, few serious injuries.
A friend who lived
in Dallas for twenty years said tornadoes rarely touch down in cities with tall
buildings because of some meteorological phenomenon not yet understood—a comforting
bromide that was thoroughly disproven last night. Except for the rare
qualifier. But it made me think of my mom. In Chicago she used to assure me
that Lake Michigan kept us safe from tornadoes—to this day I don’t know if she really
believed that or if she was simply trying to comfort me. But as my friend
pointed out, neither of us have heard of a tornado hitting Chicago (knock on
wood), whether due to tall buildings, the lake or both.
The one time I
took to the closet, it was at Jacob’s insistence. As a toddler, he was
frightened by storms and completely baffled that I enjoyed them. He and I
survived some severe ones together, like the night it hailed ferociously—we
clung to each other in the living room and stared out the window. I don’t know
that I even had the presence of mind to shut the plantation shutters. The next
morning, we discovered that the add-on family room, with its flat roof, was
awash in water, several inches deep. Jordan and I had spread my kids books out,
anticipating a special sale for the moms from the school across the street. All
ruined, as were all my precious cookbooks.
But I don’t
remember the storm the night we took to the closet, only his sweet insistence
that I had to go in there. My closet was fairly roomy, and he equipped it with
a chair, a glass of wine, and the book I was reading—plus a flashlight in case
of power outage. He brought himself some games, if I remember correctly, a
blanket and a pillow, and snacks. He was most serious and efficient about the
whole thing, insisting on our safety. (As I look at that thirteen-year-old
today, I wonder where my sweet young boy went—he’s still sweet, but our relationship
is so different!).
We did have a
strong thunderstorm about two o’clock this morning, and we lost power, which
made me realize how dark the cottage can be and how isolated. But I was too
warm and comfortable under the covers to worry about it. The storm soon passed,
and I slept again. Sophie gave up her post by my bed where she had been guarding
me (or keeping herself safe) and headed off for her usual nighttime spots.
I hope it rains
again tomorrow. I’ll even take a good storm. We have new winter rye grass, and
it needs the moisture.
Trivia for the
day: in Doylestown, PA a man robbed a bookstore. Ran in, brandishing a knife,
demanded money, and when the clerk was too slow to respond, grabbed money out
of the cash register and ran out the back door. Now I ask you, what kind of person
robs a bookstore? A gas station or convenience store, I can see, but a
bookstore? It’s almost an oxymoron. Besides, from what I know of the book
world, I wouldn’t expect a small, independent store to have enough cash to
bother about.
